


Fire on the Mountain

by Narya_Flame



Series: The Wanderer [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Roman Empire, Vesuvius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-28 07:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: Maglor is caught in the eruption of Vesuvius and faces a fight for survival.





	Fire on the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Independence1776](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Independence1776/gifts).

The ground jolted under their feet. Maglor spread his weight, bracing against the tremors that followed; Felix let his net fall to his side; across the colonnade, the _provocatores_ and _thraeces_ stopped practising their steps and stared up at the mountain.

“Vesuvius has indigestion,” joked a dark-haired Greek boy as the shaking subsided.

Maglor smiled, though disquiet stirred in his belly like dust. The others laughed – and then the _lanista_ barked at them, ordering them to concentrate. Murmuring and chuckling, they raised their weapons and replaced their helms.

“You don't suppose it's an omen?” Felix asked, lifting his net again.

Maglor hesitated. He didn't want to alarm the boy. Earthquakes were common enough in the region, and he knew no angry god resided in the mountain. Still, there was a strange taste to the air, bitter and sulphurous – nothing a mortal would notice, but plain enough to him – and a sense of tension in the earth, as though the land held its breath, waiting.

“Marcus?”

He shook his head. “Who can say?” He glanced at the hawkish figure standing with folded arms in the shade of the columns. “Though for now I would worry less about the mountain and more about him.”

Felix followed his gaze. The boy's grey eyes widened as he realised that Justinian, the _editor_ who owned most of Pompeii's gladiator troop, had come to watch them train. 

“Once more.” Maglor readied himself. “Remember, stay light on your feet, and don't over-reach.”

They practised until the autumn sun grew bright and warm, and the _lanista_ called a halt and told them to make their way to the baths. Felix sighed with relief.

“You did well.” Maglor gripped the boy's shoulder.

“High praise from the great Marcus Attilius.” Felix smiled, folded his net, and pushed his sandy hair back from his face. “Will you train with us again tomorrow?”

“No. I have company tomorrow.” 

“Berenice and Livia?”

“Yes.” His friend and her daughter were joining him for an evening meal that night, and had promised to call on him the next day before returning to Rome. A light, sorrowing ache touched his heart. He always missed them when they were away for the cooler months, and he doubted he would see Livia in Pompeii next summer. She was of an age to be married, and from certain remarks Berenice had made, he gathered her husband Titus had been interviewing prospective suitors in Rome. No doubt the thing would be done before the year was out – and yet Livia was still a child, younger even than Felix.

_Their ways are not yours. And do not forget how short and fragile their lives can be._ It did not do to grow too attached – a lesson he never seemed to learn.

As he crossed into the shadows cast by the pillars at the arena's edge, he heard a cough like the delicate tearing of parchment. He turned, and bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Justinian.”

“Attilius.” The nasal voice stressed the second syllable and lengthened the sibilant. “The boy is quite recovered, I trust?”

Maglor looked back at Felix, whose broad shoulders shook with laughter. Evidently one of his companions had made a joke. “I would not have advised training him if he were not.”

“Good.” Justinian's pale eyes watched Felix too, dispassionately, as though the young gladiator's every movement were a stroke in one of his ledgers. “He must not be so careless in future. He shows promise, that one.”

_He promises to make you wealthy, you mean._ “Felix is fast, strong and intelligent.”

“And too hot-tempered. He is no use to me maimed, Attilius.”

Maglor's mouth twisted at the memory of the summer games. He remembered the naked fear in the boy's eyes when his opponent's blade had sliced his stomach, his struggle to remain stoic as he laid down his shield and raised his hand for mercy, the overwhelming relief when Justinian pressed thumb and forefinger together, letting him live. “Will you not allow me to buy him from you?” 

Justinian laughed, the sound oddly forced. “You cannot afford him.”

_You do not know what I can afford._ “Name a price.”

“I think not.” The long, thin head tilted. “You care for him?”

“I think it would be a shameful waste for him to die on the arena floor.”

“Mmm.” Justinian's gaze returned to Felix, this time flicking over the lean young body, the tousled hair, the laughing grey eyes. His tongue, pale and pointed, moistened his lips. “Let us see how he fares two days from now. One assumes that _you_ will not be fighting?”

“I have no need to.”

“No, of course.” Now the calculating gaze turned to survey him. “Most impressive, the wealth you accumulated from your victories.”

Maglor shrugged. “Fair fortune only.” 

“Indeed.”

Below them, the earth grumbled again. The sand on the training ground shivered – an aftershock, perhaps, from the earlier quake. 

Justinian eyed their surroundings distastefully, as though the disturbance had been arranged on purpose to disrupt his day. “Well, I to my business, and you to yours. My thanks, as always, for consenting to train my troop.”

Maglor flexed his burned hand, but made no direct reply.

He went home via the _forum_. The afternoon sun was fierce now, bouncing off pillars and stalls, and the air was thick with the scent of the city – leather shoes, wax on wood, olive oil, fish, perfumes, unguents, wool, sweat. The earthquake did not appear to have troubled the residents of Pompeii; under the colonnade, a schoolmaster continued to teach his class, and a pair of young lovers held hands and whispered secrets in the shadows. Maglor nodded at his banker, Caecilius, whose son Quintus stood beside him looking thoroughly bored. A Christian preacher waved his arms on a podium and pronounced imminent destruction; a cool prickle ran up Maglor's spine, and he turned and eyed the mountain, which rose serenely over the red-tiled rooves, a deep, perfect arc of green against the sharp sky of autumn. But the earth was quiet again, for now.

***

“Marcus!”

Maglor turned from the _impluvium_ in time to intercept a running embrace from a dark-haired fourteen-year-old girl. From somewhere in the house, he heard Huan barking; he held Livia close for a few moments, and then released her to greet her mother, Berenice, who had entered more sedately.

“Livia, child, you must slow down,” she chided. “You're too old now for such antics.”

“It doesn't matter.” Maglor kissed his friend's cheek. “Not here. Not with me.” Berenice was the image of her daughter – elegant bones, lightly tanned skin, deep brown eyes and glossy dark curls. “How are you, my dear?”

“Well enough.” She slipped her arm through his. “The house is in uproar, of course; it's a relief to get away for the evening.”

“My home is always at your disposal. You know that.”

“And I thank you for it.”

Huan trotted down the stairs and lolloped across to Livia, who knelt to greet him, giggling. He was not a handsome dog, with his gangling build, patchy fur and uneven ears. Maglor had asked the artist to make him look fearsome when he commissioned the “CAVE CANEM” mosaic in the vestibule, with debatable results – certainly this Huan looked nothing like his namesake – but he was affectionate and loyal, and on the rare occasions that light-fingered would-be thieves had attempted to enter his home, the beast had seen them noisily away.

“Good boy,” Livia cooed as she rubbed his belly. “You're a good boy, aren't you? You're such a good boy...”

_Still so very young._ Maglor felt another dart of sorrow at Titus's plans for the child, and pushed it firmly away. “Well, the evening is ours; what would you like to do?”

Livia looked up, dark eyes shining. “Can we look at the upstairs frescoes?”

“Again?” Berenice's mouth curled with amusement. 

“I won't see them again for a whole year.” She pouted. “Marcus doesn't mind, do you?”

He didn't – not for her. Arm in arm with Berenice, he walked them around each of the scenes, telling carefully edited versions of the stories that went with them. The theft of the soul-stone. The death of the great wyrm. The rescue of flame-haired Maitimus from the mountain of the dark god. The Latinized names and neutral reworkings of the events gave him a thin, blessed layer of detachment – enough that he could smile when Livia cried out in delight, as she always did, and asked for more tales about her favourite characters. Berenice watched him closely, steering the conversation into safer waters whenever her daughter's questions strayed too near the bone. 

_Does she know?_ Maglor wondered, as he had many times before. Berenice, after all, was also used to playing a part, and burying her true feelings deep. A daughter of the royal house of Judaea, she had been given in marriage to her husband to secure his fortune and her position; the match was happy enough, but not all of her people had been so fortunate as Rome's reach expanded across the world.

“Did you really make up all of these stories?” Livia asked, wonder and joy in her face as she traced the outline of golden Glorfindel battling the Balrog.

Maglor smiled. “Have you heard them told anywhere else?”

“Well, no.” She drifted along the gallery, towards a detailed painting of twin boys playing under a waterfall in the woods. “Though these two are a little like Romulus and Remus.”

Maglor breathed in sharply – but Clemens the butler chose that moment to announce that the _triclinium_ was prepared, and that the first course could be served whenever the master and his guests wished it.

They dined in a room decorated with more traditional frescoes, featuring cupids, fauns, and a life-sized depiction of Theseus and Ariadne. Over the meal they talked of the upcoming tournament and the chances of the various gladiators – and, of course, the tremors from the mountain. 

“Mordecai's son Jonathan says that there were birds falling out of the sky in Herculaneum.” Livia's eyes were glowing again, the rumours of displeased deities and and the cries of doom from the Christian prophets clearly more exciting to her than the minutiae of gladiator training. She was too young to remember the earthquake of 62 and the chaos that had followed, though Berenice had told Maglor of how the fallen oil lamps had set the city aflame, and much precious artwork and architecture had been lost.

“How would Jonathan know?” Berenice chided gently. “Has he been to Herculaneum and back to see for himself?” 

But the glance she shared with Maglor was uncertain. 

Red sunlight poured through the windows, and faded into the deep lilac of evening. Just before Berenice and Livia left, the earth shook once more.

***

Maglor's dreams that night were uneasy. In sleep he returned to a world long buried, gone and forgotten for thousands of years. In the way of dreams he hovered above the land and saw a world ruined by war, the earth splitting and bleeding, great spumes of molten rock bursting from cracks in the ground. The sky was full of ash; a foul wind blew from the north, and a voice – his own – sang an echoing lament by the shores of the sea...

He woke to agitated shouts and the sound of running feet. He rose and dressed quickly. “Clemens?” he called, hearing his butler's voice in the corridor outside. “What is it? What's happened?”

A small, neat, round-faced man opened his door, fear sharp in his eyes like shattered glass. “The mountain, master. The mountain wakes.”

_Hells._ He ought to have known – the scent of the air yesterday, the tremors, the tension, the sense of creeping disquiet...but it could not be bad, or not yet. A true eruption would have woken him from sleep in a heartbeat.

With Huan at his heels, he went into the street. There was plenty of bustle and excitement, though little fear; Campania had lived in peace with its grumbling neighbour for too long to dread the volcano's wrath.

_But none of you know what it is,_ Maglor thought, pushing his way through the crowds to the _forum_, which afforded a better view of Vesuvius. Many of the townsfolk believed it a deity, a _genius_, a kind of guardian-spirit – but the mountain cared nothing for the small folk who revered it. Pompeii itself was built on a lava plateau, though no mortal would know or remember that. 

The _forum_ was packed to its rooftops, but Maglor stood head and shoulders above most people there. Black smoke curled from fissures in the mountainside, and the air once again tasted of sulphur – and fire. 

_Hells,_ Maglor thought again. He closed his eyes and listened, reached out, felt. _This is only the beginning._ And the wind was to the south-east; if Vesuvius truly erupted, then Oplontis, Stabiae and Pompeii would all be in its path.

Next to him, Huan's hackles lifted.

“I know,” Maglor murmured. “I know, boy.” 

He returned to his own villa first, and instructed Clemens and his other household staff to evacuate to the north-east. 

“_Towards_ the mountain?” his butler asked, blinking.

“Aim for the hills on its eastern side. And keep going, no matter what you see, no matter what you hear.” 

He packed the items he could not bear to lose in a leather bag – the knives entrusted to him by Indis long ago across the sea, and the trinkets he'd salvaged from the wreckage of the First and Second Age. His books he thought twice about, but he had copies in other places, and none of them were the originals. Those had disintegrated long ago. 

_Leave them. Travel light._

Next he went to Berenice's villa on the Via Stabiana. Livia was in the atrium, quietly directing their slaves as boxes were carried from room to room. Berenice stood tall in a sea of chaos, utterly serene. 

“I've told them to get out of the city.” She embraced Maglor and kissed his cheek. “If it's a repeat of 62 then they'll be safer in the hills.”

“It will be worse than 62, my dear. Send them north-east.” Maglor wrapped an arm around Livia as she folded herself against him.

Berenice gave him a sharp look, then nodded and passed the instructions on to her housekeeper.

“Where will you go?” he asked. 

“I have friends in Misenum and Neapolis. I've sent word; I hope that they will collect Livia and I from the beach.” She took his hand. “Will you come with us?”

Maglor hesitated. “Yes.” _If I can._ “I thank you.”

“Not at all -”

The explosion rent the air like a titan's roar. Lamps shook in the walls; plaster drifted from the ceiling; the mosaic tiles shifted and cracked.

Maglor's ears rang like a pair of dinner-gongs. He was dimly aware that he'd fallen, and that Livia lay on top of him; gently he rose and set her on her feet, steadying her as her legs buckled. 

“Get to the beach. Leave the city as fast as you can,” he told Berenice – though he could barely hear his own voice. He felt as though someone was holding pillows over his ears.

Berenice nodded. The blast must have deafened her too, but she understood. “And you?”

“I'll see you to the shore, and then I must return to the barracks.” He thought of Felix and the other boys, their laughing faces terrified. All of them had been trained to endure death by the sword without blinking, but were powerless in the face of the mountain. Justinian, he suspected, would flee – and the gladiators would be left to fend for themselves, not realising their true danger until it was far too late. “I'll come back to you on the beach – though do not wait long for me. Get yourselves to safety.” 

Berenice pulled him close, cradling him in a one-armed embrace and holding Livia in another. “Please don't do anything foolish,” she implored.

He grinned in spite of their circumstances. “Would I?”

But outside, there was little room for jest. Smoke rose and branched from the mountain like a black pine tree. The air was hot and bitter, and for the first time, terror ran through the gathered crowds like a winter-cold rill. By the time they reached the shore the sky was an angry grey-red, and the sun glared through slits in the cloud. Ash drifted down from the mountain like snow. The beach thronged with townsfolk calling for loved ones, or weeping in the sand, or scanning the bay for rescuing ships.

“I won't be long,” Maglor promised, embracing Livia and Berenice again. 

Berenice gripped his cloak. “Do not be.”

_Ah, my dear._ He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You must not come back for me if I don't return. Promise that you will not.”

She pursed her lips. “Go and find your friend. We leave together or we do not leave at all.”

"Berenice..."

"Go."

When he re-entered the city the streets were deserted. The townsfolk had fled or taken shelter – underground where they could, in their houses or beneath colonnades where they could not. Tiles had slipped from rooves as the earth shook, and falling rocks had smashed statues from plinths. Heads and limbs of gods lay broken in the street, and the ground was blanketed in ash. Behind him, Huan yipped, burrowing about in the debris.

“Huan!” Maglor coughed and turned aside to follow him. “Gods...Huan, to me, you dimwitted beast...”

Afterwards he thought that he should have been more careful. Rocks had been falling from the sky since he'd left Berenice and Livia by the bay, but still he did not see it coming. There was only a sharp hot shock against the left side of his skull, a flare of white light in his vision, and then he was on his knees. He tried again to call for Huan, but his mouth refused to shape words.

He was unconscious before his body hit the ground.

***

For a long time there was darkness. 

He was briefly aware of being carried. Hazy light pressed against his eyelids. Reluctantly he opened them to a sky the colour of smoke, a fat orange sun, and shafts of light like a midwinter dawn. Nausea throbbed through his aching body. He shrank from it, shifting, and pain like a searing poker lanced through his skull.

“Marcus, _keep still._” A firm, cool hand cupped his cheek; another gripped his shoulder.

_Berenice?_ He smiled in spite of the pain, disbelieving, and slid into sleep.

Later – much later – he tasted something moist and sweet on his lips, and felt a damp cloth wiped over the wound on his head. A high-pitched girlish voice chattered about something his tired mind refused to decode. _Livia._ Relief fluttered deep in his chest.

When he next woke it was to a wet nose in his palm, and the sloppy caress of his dog's tongue. _Alright, Huan. That's enough._ He lifted his hand to scratch the silky ears. _I'm back._

He was in a bed, his head pillowed against soft cushions that smelled of herbs and fresh water. That suggested a room in a villa somewhere, not a camp in the hills. A bandage itched against his scalp. Cautiously, he stirred, flexing each limb in turn to test for broken bones. Everything moved easily enough, though his head still ached, and his throat and lungs _burned_.

“Marcus?”

Berenice's voice was soft and careful, as though trying not to startle him.

He opened his eyes. His lashes felt sticky and grainy, and he winced a little at the light, though it was early evening and the sun's rays were gentle. 

She exhaled, her eyes relieved, though grave. “How do you feel?”

Maglor lifted an eyebrow, then hissed at the dart of pain it sent through his head.

Berenice chuckled, though there was no humour in it. She poured a cup of water and held it to his lips, brushing a lock of stray hair back from his face. “We thought we were going to lose you.”

He drank deeply, then leaned back against the heap of cushions. His eyes travelled over the room – comfortable and well-appointed, though by no means lavish. The air, he thought, still tasted of sulphur and smoke. “Livia?” His voice sounded scratchy and frail in his throat.

“Livia is unhurt – though she's barely slept since the day it happened.” Shadows gathered in Berenice's eyes, and her mouth tautened at the corners. Maglor thought of two frightened, dark-haired boys, whispering tales of fabled Valinor to each other before they slept, hoping against hope to keep the nightmares at bay...

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Misenum.”

_Misenum?_ That was on the other side of the bay. He frowned. “How long has it been?”

“Five days.” The usually-steady voice shook. “As I said, we were worried.”

Grief settled inside him like the ash from the sky. He'd failed. _Felix..._ He swallowed, took her hand, and ran a thumb over her smooth, tanned skin. “You should not have come back for me.”

“I didn't.” She smiled a little. “Although I would have, if you had been any longer in returning.”

“Then...?”

“Your dog, at the very least, has some sense.” She bent over him and gently kissed his forehead. “I'll be back in a moment. Stay awake, if you can.”

Maglor tried – and failed. When he woke again the air had the cool tickle of an autumn night. He could still taste ash in his mouth, though he wondered now whether that was his own fancy. He drew air into his lungs, and they stung and itched like blistered skin.

He opened his eyes, and saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure silhouetted against the window. He blinked a little at the silvery outline the stars gave his form, and then realisation struck like a fierce embrace. “_Felix?_”

The boy spun, grinning, eyes too bright. “Oh, thank the _gods._” He crossed to the bed and carefully drew Maglor into his arms. “I thought you were dead...I didn't believe Berenice when she told me...” 

“I thought _you_ were dead.” The relief, the joy, were sharp and dizzying, searing through his breath and blood. “I was going back to the barracks for you, I knew Justinian would never let you leave.” His arms tightened as the sandy curls tickled against his cheek.

“He ran.” Contempt chilled the boy's voice, and he sat back, grey eyes hard. “He ordered us to stay, though not many did. I was leaving when Huan came for me.” He gripped Maglor's forearm. “He led me straight to you.”

Huan, lounging on the rug, lifted his head and wagged his tail. 

***

As Maglor recovered, Berenice and Felix filled the gaps in his knowledge. Huan had led Felix back down to the beach and found Berenice; she had managed to secure them all passage across the bay, and lodgings in the home of a local _quaestor_ when they arrived in Misenum. 

“My husband's name has its uses,” she twinkled, though there was a river of sorrow behind it – many had stayed behind in the city, and Felix reluctantly told him how the great column of ash over the volcano had collapsed, sending debris and dust rushing over Pompeii and Herculaneum and Stabiae like a dark, terrible flood. Tremors had shot through the earth, and the waters of the bay had rolled back as though repelled from the shore. Those brave enough to venture back into Pompeii reported that it was utterly destroyed, buried beneath the debris of the volcano. Nobody could yet guess at the number of dead.

“We were fortunate,” Felix said one evening as they sat on the balcony of Maglor's room, sipping wine. “I thought when I was carrying you to the beach that we'd never get out. The mountain was red with fire...I thought the whole world was coming to an end.” 

Maglor flexed his scarred hand, remembering once again how the world had broken thousands of years ago, and the flames that had spewed from its depths.

Livia, too, was a frequent visitor – though she seemed oddly shy all of a sudden, and had trouble meeting Maglor's eyes. He asked Berenice about this one evening when they were reclining and eating a light evening meal – olives, bread, dried figs, cured meats, nuts – and his friend's face tightened. She looked across at Felix, who nodded.

“Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I see it's time.”

“Time for what?” Maglor asked, though he had a feeling he knew. 

Berenice took a swallow of wine and gave him a sharp look. “Marcus, I nursed you for days. I couldn't very well bind your head without noticing your ears.”

He was right. “Ah.”

“And you survived an injury that I'm told would have killed most men. That rock fractured your skull, yet now there's barely any evidence of it to be seen.” 

Maglor exhaled, unfolded himself, and got to his feet. “Who knows?”

“Felix, Livia and I, of course.” Maglor looked over at the sandy-haired young gladiator, and thought with a pang of how Felix had held him in his arms with no trace of fear. “The physician saw,” Berenice continued, “although he isn't a superstitious man; he said nothing of your ears, and attributes your recovery to luck.”

“In a sense that's true.” Maglor smiled at Felix. The boy was reclining with them, though Maglor knew how nervously his friend watched the household slaves, anxious that they might have been sold at the same auction or have crossed paths at some other time. If any of them recognised him, he would be exposed as a runaway and returned to Justinian – assuming the cold-hearted _editor_ had survived the eruption. “How did you two guess?”

“We know you.” Berenice glared at him. “And we are not fools. I never believed those frescoes in your villa were stories, not for a moment.”

The thought of the lost artwork – of the life he had carefully built for himself over the years – slid under his ribcage like the tip of a spear. “And if you have guessed, others may.” 

“There are already whispers amongst the slaves,” she admitted. “So far it is being dismissed as nonsense, but...”

Maglor bowed his head. The salted sea breeze stirred the air, heavy with the warm tang of autumn and the call of the ocean beyond the bay. _It is time to move on. Again._

He heard Felix's tread behind him, and felt the boy's hand on his shoulder. “You're going to leave.”

“I have to.” He turned and touched the boy's cheek, damp with tears. “It has always been this way for me; you must understand that, knowing what I am.”

“You're still too weak -”

“I have crossed worlds in far worse health than this, my friend. And I heal quickly, as you've seen.” Maglor looked at Berenice, who had made no argument. “Thanks in no small part to your care.”

“Then I'm going with you.” The young voice was hard and determined. “I won't let you be alone.” 

Maglor breathed around the weight of tears in his throat. “I would never ask you...”

“I cannot stay either.”

It was true. Maglor knew well enough what happened to runaway slaves. They were hunted down and caught – and then branded, mutilated and worse. The thought of Felix's sweet face contorted in pain made him sick in a way that had nothing to do with his head wound. Harbouring fugitives, too, was forbidden under the law; Berenice's _quaestor_ friend was in unwitting danger as long as they were under his roof. 

Felix's grey eyes, though afraid, were resolved.

“Together, then.” Maglor laid his hands on the young man's shoulders, kissed his forehead, and returned to the couch. “And you, Berenice? And Livia?”

Berenice lifted her eyes to the setting sun. “We will return to my husband in Rome.” She breathed out slowly. “Although not yet. He will want me to ascertain whether anything can be salvaged from the villa in Pompeii.”

Maglor nodded. It was what he had expected, but he would miss their company deeply.

Berenice was her usual quiet, competent self in arranging their departure. She managed to acquire provisions, travel clothes, money, and even a pack mule for the road – all, she assured them, without raising the slightest suspicion of who was leaving, and certainly no hint as to why. Maglor protested that he should at least make some repairs to their host, but Berenice shook her head.

“I will take care of everything,” she promised.

“I do not know when I'll be able to repay you.” He thought of the money and valuables he had carefully deposited, sequestered and hidden at various locations around the continent, and wondered how best to access them without putting Felix in danger.

“None of that matters.” She took his hands in hers. “Keep the money for your journey. And be safe; that is payment enough.”

They left at dawn, ten days after their arrival in Misenum. Berenice and Livia walked with them to the town walls; Maglor embraced them both as the sun spilled weak apricot light over the road and hills.

“Send word, if you can,” Berenice whispered.

“I will.” He kissed her cheek. “And thank you. Again.” He turned to Livia and ruffled her hair. “Take good care of your mother.”

She nodded, blushing, still tongue-tied in the light of her new knowledge.

Maglor turned to Felix. “Ready?”

The young man nodded. “Where to?”

Huan stood at Felix's side, ears pricked, tail wagging in anticipation. The air that curled down from the mountains was cool and fragrant now, with no trace of smoke or noxious gas. The sea breeze was sharp, and bit through their cloaks. It would be winter in a few weeks; travel would be hard even on the road, but travel they must – and for some distance, away from Pompeii, beyond the reach of the rumours and Justinian's cruel grasp. 

Maglor closed his eyes and slid into the Song, suddenly longing for the north, for a fresher and greener land, somewhere they could both make a new start. He thought of rugged hills with their bones laid bare to the sky, light that pierced the air for miles, ancient forests and moorlands kissed by summer rain. He smiled. “Britannia.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's generally thought that Vesuvius erupted in August of 79 CE. This comes from a letter written by Pliny the Younger some 25 years after the event, but there is evidence for an October/November date – for example, traces of autumnal fruits found in the ruins, and victims wearing heavier clothes than would be typical for an Italian summer – hence the autumn setting of this fic.
> 
> Maglor's house is based on The House of the Tragic Poet, a real site that can be visited in the ruins of the city. It's a bit of a puzzle; the house itself is small, but its contents and artwork were of the highest quality, far more expensive than someone living in a house of that size would normally be able to afford. The downstairs is covered in exquisite mythological frescoes. The upstairs was destroyed, and is a complete mystery. “CAVE CANEM” (on the floor in the vestibule) translates as “beware of the dog.”
> 
> Marcus Attilius was a real person attested in historical sources, notable for being a gladiator who chose that career path rather than being forced into it as a slave. Graffiti and fanart of him was discovered in the ruins of Pompeii.
> 
> Caecilius (mentioned briefly in the forum scene) was also real, although it's thought he died in the earthquake of 62, not the eruption of 79. He and his son Quintus feature prominently in _The Cambridge Latin Course_, taught in a number of British schools – including yours truly's. I couldn't resist giving them a cameo.
> 
> Berenice, Livia, Felix and Justinian are all fictional, though Berenice was loosely inspired by Drusilla, daughter of Herod Agrippa.
> 
> The twins that Livia compares to Romulus and Remus are, of course, Elrond and Elros.


End file.
